


The Mayoral Desk

by Illegible_Scribble



Series: 31 Days of Frodo/Sam, 2018 [30]
Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: AU, Anal Sex, Canon Divergent, Fluff, Frodo stays in the Shire, Kinktober 2018, M/M, Post-Quest, VERY Post-Quest, canon in fact has been launched by a trebuchet into the Void to join Morgoth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-30
Updated: 2018-10-30
Packaged: 2019-08-10 23:48:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16464638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Illegible_Scribble/pseuds/Illegible_Scribble
Summary: Sam makes a delightful opportunity out of the old desk in the Mayor's office needing a replacement, by commissioning the new one to have very specific dimensions suitable for more than just sifting through paperwork.





	The Mayoral Desk

**Author's Note:**

> This is utterly self-indulgent in the aspect that Frodo gets to stay in the Shire, as it mentions he and Sam getting married, as well as raising children together.
> 
> Based on [this prompt](https://www.pillowfort.io/posts/112710) for Kinktober, Day #30: Choose Your Own, for which I selected Office Sex.

Sam did not have any outstanding complaints about the office work necessary to perform his duties as Mayor. Being as it was he lived still at Bag End, and the Town Hole was in Michel Delving, his regular schedule was popping in for a bit of paper-sorting for a few weekdays every other week. Meaning he was still able to spend quite a lot of time at home, or out elsewhere doing other Mayor-related things.

Considering that, being cooped up in his Mayoral office wasn't _that_ bad. Not _really_. That's at least what he tried to convince himself when sustaining his fourth paper cut in a week, and reading over another property dispute of two hobbits and one grazing field. If he was being plain with himself, this end of the Mayor business actually got quite boring, quite quickly.

Certainly, often enough Frodo and at times the children would come along with him for the few days in Michel Delving, and spend a fair bit of time in the office with him, either serving as a pleasant distraction (generally in the children's case), or offering appreciated help (as Frodo often did).

More of these trips than not, however, as Sam found himself alone, going through the endless stacks of mundane papers ever on his desk, his mind began to wander.

Initially, it was just conversations with Frodo, Sam taking his best guess at what Frodo would be likely to say about this dispute or that; later, he would think of how much nicer it would be if Elanor were there to offer witty remarks, or to hear Merry and Pippin's amusing chatter in the background. The most recent development of his companion-filled fancies, coincided with the timing of the old Mayoral desk needing a replacement, for one leg was beginning to seriously buckle, and a crack had begun to split through the cabinets.

Sam became very excited by the prospect of commissioning a new desk – in great part to his most recent fantasies. Which always involved Frodo's presence in his office, but in various states of undress that lead to neither of them working very much with the papers. In fact, Sam's desk (in his mind, always still sturdy enough to be put through a few paces) was re-purposed for what could be considered the exact opposite of its intended use.

Thinking of all the ways Frodo could shag Sam on his own desk was an immensely more pleasant pastime than getting more paper cuts.

All of which lead to Sam innocently asking Frodo one morning, on a sleepy Sunday back in Bag End, if he could measure Frodo's legs.

Frodo paused midway through ruffling his own hair (which by now was primarily moonlight-silver that cascaded down his shoulders) to give Sam an incredulous look. “Measure- do what to my what?”

“Just, see how long your legs is, is all.” said Sam, cursing himself for the ease in which he blushed – it certainly made his proposition seem much less credible as mere a casual question. “Just wondering, like.”

Frodo slowly sat back, an anticipatory smile slowly dawning on his sleepy features. “Aha.” Sam knew he was found out that this would be some sort of present. He was privately pleased to know Frodo was much less likely to guess _what sort_. “Well, I hardly deny quests of knowledge, do I?”

So Frodo stood, pulling his nightshirt up and over his head, giving Sam a coy look as he scrabbled for a tape measure. Sam knew he was _not_ being subtle, as he carefully measured from the floor to Frodo's hip, then more quickly the floor to just below the bottom of his pubic bone. “Anything of note?” Frodo asked innocently, as Sam placed a grateful kiss on his hip.

“Oh? Ah- well, they's long and fine, of course. Every inch a beauty.”

“I thought you felt that way _before_ you measured them, anyway.”

“And now I've mathematics to back up me feelings, you see.”

Frodo didn't really, but still knowing full well Sam was up to something, he merely gave a knowing smile. “If you insist, Sam.”

 

–

 

It was some weeks later, when Sam's new desk had come in, and Frodo was paying the office a visit, that he realized while casually leaning against it, its top came to just beneath his pubic bone. As they were alone, Frodo didn't hesitate to make mention of that. “A most interesting height you chose for your new desk, Sam.”

Bright red flooded Sam's cheeks. He could play innocent as much as he liked, but it remained that he'd been caught. “Y-yes, isn't it... Very- accommodating, you might say...”

“And for what, exactly, unless that's another secret?” Frodo didn't need to ask, really. Judging from Sam's face, having shared a bed with him for more than a quarter of a century, and just _Sam_ being himself, Frodo could deduce. They were far from being in the springs of their youth any longer, but that hardly put a damper on Sam's physical vigor, and Frodo was pleased to keep pace with him.

All of Frodo's suspicions were confirmed when Sam admitted the height of the table compared to Frodo's hips was completely intentional. The Mayor of the Shire wanted to be shagged senseless by his husband on his own desk.

Fortunately for him, his husband was delighted to oblige in that very act.

 

–

 

They didn't exactly plan a day, as it turned out. Rather, Sam began to keep a bottle of their favored oil stowed in his desk, while Frodo kept one about his person in an interior pocket. On a day a great bustle of guests were dropping in to pay the Mayor a visit (not just Frodo and their children, but also Merry and Pippin's families), seeing that all of them would be quite indisposed conversing with one another for a time while they headed to lunch, Frodo and Sam exchanged a few knowing glances (and stole a few touches while no one was looking).

“We'll be along shortly,” Frodo informed the three groups at the threshold of Sam's office, “Sam and I have a few things to ah, go over, before we join you.”

His explanation was met with general acceptance and agreement through the some twelve hobbits present, and many nods and “See you in a bit”s were given in reply. The only one to offer any real dissonance to Frodo's explanation, was from his daughter Elanor. As the mass of hobbits began to depart, she threw him a look over her shoulder – which, from the downward tilt of her head, and the skeptical position of her eyebrows, clearly conveyed: “Father, I have not been six years old for eighteen years, and I know _exactly_ what you really mean by 'go over' with Dad.”

Frodo in kind pursed his lips and squared himself in a gentlmanly way, making for quite the noble and no-tolerance sort of face, which said: “And for a solid four of those totaled twenty-four years, I dealt with your messes and waking every two hours in the night. Giving me, without question, the right to shag your dad under whatever pretext we bloody well please. And if you should breathe a word of it to your siblings, dessert rights shall be revoked for the month.”

Respectfully, Elanor conceded by lowering her gaze and nodding, making no further remark aloud or silent as the procession departed the Town Hole.

Frodo did love her terribly, he only wished she hadn't gotten quite so much of Bilbo's barbed tongue. He nodded to himself approvingly, before stepping back into the room, and leaning against the door as he closed it. Sam was seated at his desk, looking at Frodo, shy and expectant.

“We're alone,” said Frodo, confirming this further by locking the door, and clasping his hands behind his back as he took a thoughtful few steps forward. “Now, being alone as we are, whatever would the Mayor like to do with me?”

Sam rose from his seat and came around the side of his desk, humming to himself as he and Frodo began to casually circle one another, the diameter of their circles growing tighter and tighter with each revolution. Until, at last, they stood nose-to-nose, Frodo smiling almost _wickedly_ in such a delicious way.

They did not even exchange a word before they came together, kissing passionately, and wasting no time with attacking the buttons of one another's coats as they stumbled over to the desk, and Frodo pinned him hard against it. They both thought distastefully about the layers of their dress as clothes were tossed carelessly across the office, until at last they could push one another's bracers from their shoulders, and nearly tore off the plackets of one another's breeches.

Frodo placed firm but gentle hands on Sam's fervently bucking hips, slowing them to a halt. Sam whimpered quietly, having become quite taken with the thought of frotting there and then. “I think,” said Frodo, sliding a hand down Sam's briefs to squeeze his shaft, “we can use the desk a bit more creatively than just this.” he smiled like a fox as he withdrew his hand, and it took all of Sam's willpower to follow him around to his own side of the desk, from which their oil bottle was procured.

They stepped out of the last of their undergarments, and without a question, Sam turned around to brace himself against the desk, widening his stance to give Frodo total access. His face was flushed, but from the heat of their touches, and the giddiness of being the Mayor, bent over his own desk. He turned his head to look at Frodo, who met his gaze. He was smiling, lips trembling minutely as he bowed his head, accepting the position of greater power Sam was gifting him, in this space where he was normally second to none.

Sam moaned unabashedly as he felt Frodo's oil-slickened hands beginning to rub his thighs. He'd always loved Frodo being in control, for his gentle guidance and knowing always where to touch and what he wanted, and to be able to give him this made Sam's heart swell exponentially.

“Now,” Frodo murmured, nosing Sam's shoulder as his hands wandered and rubbed, “I'd like you to remember, each time you look at these papers, and sort through them and read them,” his hands crept upwards, and Sam's breathing began to strain, “remember me, and us together, just like this.” he nuzzled aside Sam's greying hair to plant a kiss on the back of his neck. “Remember all we went through, so we might be here now, together.” Sam clutched the table and moaned as Frodo's fingers began to press inside him. “Sharing a life more beautiful than I could ever have dreamed, with five gorgeous children, in our wonderful Shire, prospering by your hand.

“But most of all,” Frodo curled his finger to press against Sam's sweet spot, deep inside, and Sam clenched around him and cried out, “when you're looking through these papers, I want you to remember how much I love you.” the lips still on Sam's neck parted for a brief touch of teeth. “And how hard.”

It was fast but graceful, Frodo's fingers withdrawing, and Sam turning to lift himself up onto his desk. The portraits of the family that most oft kept him company were turned down out of respect, and Frodo lifted Sam's legs onto his shoulders while Sam lay back, his bum just over the edge of the desk.

Sam – as Frodo often told him so – was a romantic, and had cataloged a ream of memories through his life that he thought utterly beautiful. Many of them involved sights of the Wilderlands, his children, Elves, and many otherwise plain things he was grateful for at home. But most of all, Frodo had been ever-present in his memories as the most beautiful thing in the world.

There had been the day of herbs and stewed rabbit in Ithilien, the scarlet-lit moment in Cirith Ungol, waking to see his face after Mordor fell around them...

There was no denying they were old, now, and Frodo was no longer the raven-haired enchanter with blue crystal eyes he had been in his tweens. However, the vibrance of his eyes never faded, and Sam was still hopelessly in love with his hair, which fell like rivers of starlight to his shoulders. Most of all, Sam's heart was utterly lost to the adoration and honor in Frodo's eyes, looking down on Sam as he offered himself as a gift. The underpinning light of plain desire also there, proceeded to set Sam's blood aflame.

Frodo's hands took up a firm grip of Sam's hips, and he murmured so sweetly, “My Sam,” before joining their bodies as one.

Sam squirmed and writhed on the table in overwhelming pleasure as Frodo set up a constant rhythm, gripping the edge of the table and moaning nonsensical adorations while Frodo tupped him. Familiar as the sensation of being filled so full and tight was, Sam's toes nevertheless curled with the same pleasure that burned along his spine, while the table provided a very interesting new dimension. It had not the softness of a bed, nor the give even of plain earth; it was hard and immovable, at best creaking instead of shifting with movement. Several times Sam clonked his head or jolted his tailbone as he struggled to buck his hips and arch his back – never enough to hurt, but a reminder to be gentle.

While Sam's hands were indisposed gripping the table, one of Frodo's – still slick with oil – slipped over his hip, and began to pump his shaft. The movements were ragged and took effort, but the incredible tightness of Frodo's fist compensated entirely for its necessity to coincide with the push and pull of Frodo's hips.

They took it slow and sweetly, but as it always happened, Sam could feel his body tightening and beginning to strain all too soon. He brought Frodo to a halt by clamping around him fiercely, and forgetting himself to the sheer pleasure surging through his blood, he used his legs (still on Frodo's shoulders) as what leverage he could to thrust up his hips, coming with a shout into Frodo's tightly clenched hand.

He was gasping for breath as Frodo jolted more deeply inside him and shuddered with release, filling him with his seed, and leaving them both to slump with exhaustion, their bones turned to honey with pleasure.

Sam managed to weakly raise his head when he felt Frodo shifting again between his legs, and couldn't help but laugh to see Frodo had righted and turned his own individual portrait to face Sam, now, and looked at him with a similar expression of unabashed and pleased adoration. “You won't forget,” Frodo breathed at last, his chest heaving and his dress shirt clinging to him, transparent against his skin with sweat, “will you, Samwise?”

“Nay,” Sam wheezed, using his legs to pull Frodo downwards, and sitting up to meet him halfway in a kiss, “not ever.”

After pulling kerchiefs from their discarded coats, they wiped up the most obvious traces of their loving, before collapsing on the office's plush rug to recover. “My Sam,” said Frodo, cuddling Sam up against his chest as they lay together, “my Mayor.”

Sam lifted his head a bit from Frodo's shoulder to look over at his desk, considering the crumpled papers there on, and how he was sure to never look at any of them (or the desk) the same way as he had before. “Aye,” he affirmed, resettling himself and draping an arm over Frodo's chest, “yours, in all ways.”


End file.
